Albert smiled, eyes still on the ship. “That was quite the journey, wasn’t it?”
“Life-changing,” she said, “just as Mercer promised in all his advertisements.”
Albert laughed heartily, turning to face her. A stiff breeze came off the sea and loosened a bit of her hair. Albert tucked it behind her ears. “Roger promised to come visit in a few months. After he’s explored the depths of San Francisco’s delights. His words, not mine.”
“I bet that takes him more than a few months.”
Albert nodded, smiling. “We have many of our own delights to look forward to. A practice to build, a home to establish, patients to save, perhaps children one day, and more of this . . .” He leaned in to kiss her slowly, unashamedly, until she was thoroughly breathless. It was only when he pulled back to smile at her that she remembered they were still surrounded by people getting off the ship.
Cora blinked quickly, gave his chest a playful shove. “Mind your manners, Doctor.”
The corner of Albert’s mouth lifted in a mischievous grin.
“Mrs. Cunningham! Doctor!”
The couple turned toward the call and found Sally and Pearl hurrying toward them. Cora waved. The girls’ faces were flushed with excitement. “You’ll not believe it!” Sally said. “We’ve found husbands!”
“Already?” Cora gasped. “We’ve been docked less than an hour.”
“A group of men were waiting, as Mercer promised,” Pearl explained, bouncing her babe in her arms. Lottie slept peacefully, cheeks plump and pink.
“And we’ve been talking with two kind and good-looking brothers, both in need of wives,” Sally went on. “They own a large farm a couple hours outside the city. So we both have husbands, Lottie has a father, and we get to stay together. It’s a miracle!”
Cora laughed. “It really is. I’m so happy for you.”
“Thank you for all you did, Cora,” Pearl said, eyes suddenly teary.
“My pleasure.” Cora hugged the sisters. “I’m so happy for you. I’ll check on you soon.”
They said their goodbyes, and Albert and Cora watched the girls hurry away. Albert put his arm around her shoulders. “Are you ready to go, my love?”
Cora took a long breath, looking over the Continental once more. Quite a journey, indeed. She lifted to her toes, gave Albert a leisurely, lingering kiss, and then said, “I’m ready. Let’s get to work.”
Click on the cover to check out Teri’s next romance:
Teri Harman is the author of The Moonlight Trilogy, a witch fantasy series, and the magic realism romance, A Thousand Sleepless Nights. For many years, she's written about books for ksl.com, reviewed books for The Deseret News, and contributed book segments to Utah's number one lifestyle show, “Studio 5 with Brooke Walker.” Her fiction won first place in the “Romance Through the Ages Contest” in 2016 and Kirkus Reviews called her work "unusual and absorbing." She has taught classes and workshops for writers all over Utah.
Teri is also a certified yoga instructor (RYT-500) and has a degree in exercise and sport science from the University of Utah. She lives in Utah with her husband and three children. Visit her at www.teriharman.com
LINDA CARROLL-BRADD
Lowell, Massachusetts
December 1865
The flickering light from the oil lantern danced shadows across the pages of the Courier-Citizen. Sorcha leaned an elbow on the scarred dining room table of her parents’ two-story house, where she’d spread the newspaper. She scanned columns containing advertisements for sales of furniture, bolts of fabric, and premium butcher cuts. Wedged amongst the ads were announcements of available job offerings. Since the War of the Rebellion ended, any job she might be qualified for went to a returning soldier. The company name of her former employer, Raybourne’s Textiles, headed the next column. Just seeing the words made the scars on her disfigured left hand throb. Never again.
“Saints alive, Sorcha Geraghty. Where be yer spectacles?” Maveen bustled into the room, carrying a basket of mending on her ample hip. “Why must ye scrunch up yer face in that way? Hasten wrinkles, ye’ll be doin’.” She settled into the upholstered chair with Queen Anne legs and opened the basket.
Straightening before an anticipated reprimand for poor posture, Sorcha grinned at the way her mother’s Irish accent broadened when she became irritated. They’d lived twenty-five years in America, and neither parent had lost their accent from County Mayo. “I wouldn’t be squinting if someone on the newspaper staff saw the importance of grouping and labeling the ads. I posted a note on that very correction to the publisher last week.”
“Pish posh, ye and yer notes. Are ye thinkin’ ye know better than the man who makes his business runnin’ the paper?” Tsking, Ma lifted a wooden oval from the basket and slipped a holey woolen sock over the smooth end.
“I figured a businessman would welcome a suggestion for making the reader’s experience more enjoyable.” She flipped to the last page, then smoothed the creases. Under her hand, bold print with the name Asa S. Mercer popped into focus. A skitter of interest tingled her spine. Leaning closer, she scanned the article from The New York Times with a reprint date from several days earlier. The announcement stated space remained on a ship, the S.S. Continental, for a second group of “petticoat brides” leaving the following month for Washington Territory.
Quick footsteps snapped on the hardwood floor before becoming muffled by the carpet. A loud huffing of expelled breath followed. “Are you still reading, Sorcha?”
“That I am. I told you I needed to review the ads for a job.” Sorcha planted a finger in the article to glance up at her black-haired cousin. The tapping shoe and fists planted on rounded hips left no doubt about how Blinne felt about her activity.
“You were to be my partner in the parlor for charades. Our sisters and brothers are waiting.” She scurried to the table and rested a hand on the table, leaning close. “Why a job? Aren’t you too busy with your studies for your teacher’s certificate?”
“In these final weeks of the course, we’re concentrating on our individual projects. I’ll make time. Look at this news, Blinne.” Sorcha tapped a finger on the headline. “Remember when we heard this gentleman speak two years ago?”
“Huh.” Blinne dropped into the adjacent chair. “Asa Mercer, Female Emigrant Agent. That man who convinced women to travel across the country to marry those frontiersmen?” She turned, her eyes flashing. “I remember sitting with you in the Unitarian Church for his presentation and thinking he, as a bachelor, was an odd choice to convince women to go forth and populate the West.” A giggle escaped before she shot a frowning glance toward her aunt across the room. “I mean, travel so far away from the bosom of their families.”
Sorcha turned a wide-eyed look at her capricious cousin, then scrunched her face into a frown. That fact was not one she wanted planted in Ma’s head. When Sorcha first broached the subject about joining the original group on the S.S. Illinois, she’d met only opposition. Her parents had argued that grief over her beau’s death in the Battle of Chancellorsville colored her thoughts.
Ma stood and approached the table. “Just the other day I was chattin’ with Dorothy Ordway.” She pointed the darning needle toward her niece. “Ye must be knowin’ her, Blinne. She has her dresses made at Dinah’s shop, where ye work.”
“Of course I know Missus Ordway. Nice lady.” Blinne nodded, then ducked her head and glanced sideways, then mouthed, Sorry.
“Well, she’d had a recent letter from her niece, Lizzie, who traveled on Mercer’s first trip.” Ma rested a hip against the edge of the table. “Saints be praised, Dorothy worried so that Lizzie would never marry. She reported the independent young woman loves teachin’ and is quite happy out west.”
“I remember Miss Ordway. She taught my Sunday School classes at Reverend Abner’s Unitarian Society meetings.” A sigh slid between her lips before Sorcha could hold it inside. To be in charge of her own classroom—to gaze upon a sea of young, eager faces
and share facts to give the children the means to prosper in the world—was her dream.
Ma sucked in a breath. “Sorcha Donelle, yer not thinkin’ on this emigration madness again, are ye?”
“Why not?” The use of her middle name worked as Ma intended—to make her feel about six years old. Wincing, Sorcha angled her head to meet her mother’s gaze. “I’ve not seen a single ad for a teaching job locally. Why did I spend my trousseau money on the teaching academy if I can’t get a job? Since the war ended, all the schools are only hiring men.”
“But the Pacific Coast . . . ’tis so far away.” Ma blinked fast, her eyes watering.
Being seated and looking upward created too much of a disadvantage. Sorcha rose, careful not to step too close and tower over her ma’s petite form. Ma was the parent to convince, then Da would go along with whatever she decided. “As was America when you and Da and Uncle Eoin left the family farm in the Doo Lough Valley and climbed aboard an oceangoing ship.” Suddenly, traveling west presented the logical solution to her dilemma. The article claimed Mercer again offered teaching jobs to the women who joined his expedition. Plus she knew women moving to the sparsely populated region were much sought after as wives.
“But we had no other choice.”
Irritation squared her shoulders, and she narrowed her eyes. “Don’t be shaking your head, Ma. I’ve been raised on the dire potato-famine stories you tell.”
Gasping, Maveen reached for the hem of her apron and dabbed her eyes. “The forties were tryin’ times . . . dyin’ times . . .” Scowling, she shook a pointed finger. “And well ye know it.”
The word dying tightened Sorcha’s throat. More than two years of grieving were behind her, and she didn’t want to upset Ma more by mentioning the hated war that stole her Tully and two of her brothers, Shea and Odran. For the past several months, she’d felt restless. “I do, Ma. And I’m seeking calmer times. What could be more peaceful than living near an ocean and listening to soothing waves at the end of a day?” After hearing Mercer’s talk, she’d looked up details in Lowell’s library about the faraway territory and learned about the city of Seattle. She’d even found a copy of the pamphlet he’d written, titled Washington Territory, The Great North-West.
“Ah, lass, family is everythin’.” Ma tilted back her head and reached up a hand.
Like when she was young, Sorcha nestled her cheek against the work-roughened palm for comfort and looked into her mother’s pale-blue eyes. “A fact I know well, Ma. But so is wanting to feel like I’m making a difference in the world.” The more she argued, the more she was convinced her future lay in that distant territory. If Ma was worried about her being far from family . . . The solution is so obvious. Sorcha straightened and rested a hand on her cousin’s shoulder. “Blinne will come along too.”
Blinne jerked her head around, and her eyes popped wide. “I will?”
“Of course. Women with seamstress abilities will be in great demand in a city where men have been making do with their own sewing.” Although calling Seattle a city stretched the truth, the lack of seamstresses rang as logical. “They’ve been limited to buying whatever gets shipped to town and hoping it fits well enough.”
“Where is yer father? I’ll get him to talk sense into ye two.” Maveen spun toward the hallway. “Padraig!” Her skirts swished with a hiss as she dashed from the sitting room.
Sorcha slumped into the chair, suddenly drained of her initial spunk, but her thoughts whirled.
“Are you serious about this trip, then?” Blinne clasped her hands and shifted her gaze from the table to the doorway where her aunt had disappeared.
“I wanted to go the first time. Two years ago, the trip represented escape from constant news of the war and how the blockades choked the textile industry. Then the accident occurred.” She held up her maimed hand with the missing ring and pinky fingers, frowning at the puckered scar. Only within her own house did she expose her injury to others.
“Mama and Papa were still alive then.” Slumping in her chair, Blinne sniffled. “And we lived in the big house overlooking the Concord River.”
“Let’s join this group of women.” Hoping to dissuade a mood that could turn to melancholy, Sorcha reached for Blinne’s hand and squeezed. “Let’s be bold and be the individuals who steer our own future. I have some money saved, and you could use part of your inheritance.”
“My dowry?” Shaking her head, she wrung her hands in her lap. “Papa left me that money so I could make a good marriage.”
The old-country ways. Sorcha fought to keep a disparaging note from her voice. “Blinne, haven’t you noticed that life isn’t like it was before the war? Marriages for people like us aren’t arranged anymore. Besides, you could pay your passage and still have funds remaining to bring to a marriage. If that’s what you want.” She thought of the women’s suffrage speeches she’d heard this summer at the city auditorium. The eloquent orators spoke of the importance of women valuing their abilities and sparked a fire in Sorcha’s soul to seek her best potential. “Or you could open your own seamstress shop.”
“No. I couldn’t.” Blinne shook her head, then frowned. With shaky fingers, she pleated the fabric of her skirt into rows before turning with a gleam in her eyes. “Could I?”
“Of course. You’ve learned everything about running a shop from working with Dinah. And I’ve seen how good you are with the customers.”
“I do have a way with bestowing compliments that turn into sales.” Blinne flashed a smile. “Dinah’s been letting me take the remnants from the end of fabric bolts home. I’d thought to make them into a quilt, but maybe I could sew men’s shirts instead.”
Blinne is making plans. Hope burst in her chest. Sorcha turned back to the table, running a finger along the lines of text. “The ship leaves from New York City the second week of January for a four-month journey. Passage costs three hundred dollars.” She winced, her enthusiasm waning. Her bank account held only two-thirds of that amount. Could she convince Da to supply the remaining funds? Or did Mercer have financial backing from supporters in his native territory to assist the eastern women?
“Sorcha!” Wavy-haired Padraig strode into the room, wispy smoke trailing from the pipe clenched in his teeth. “What’s this I hear about ye wantin’ a sea adventure? Is me bonny girl ready to spread her wings?”
Biting back a smile, Sorcha jumped to her feet and rushed to her da’s side. She rose on tiptoes and kissed his whiskery cheek, then leaned back and looked into flashing green eyes that mirrored her own. In that moment, she was ready to risk anything to earn herself a coveted teaching position—even traveling the high seas. “You heard right, Da. I wish to become one of Mercer’s belles.”
Chilly breezes tugged at Sorcha’s skirt as she topped the shaky gangplank and stepped onto the solid deck of the S.S. Continental. After several days of nervous waiting, she was glad when Mister Mercer finally appeared at Lovejoy’s Hotel this morning a bit before noon. Local newspapers ran articles doubting Mercer’s motives for the trip. Rumors abounded among the ladies in the group that he controlled insufficient funding to start the expedition. But his cheerful salutation on the morning of January 16, 1866, absolved all of those fears.
Thankfully, he brought men from the ship’s crew to oversee loading trunks, crates, and valises. The same crew also arranged multiple coaches and taxis to transport the passengers from the hotel at Beekman Street and Park Row to Pier 2 NR on the North River.
All told, their group—comprising seven widows with children, three childless widows, and thirty-six unmarried women—presented quite a smaller contingent than the seven hundred women Mercer boasted about in his interviews. Sorcha had come to the conclusion the man loved to exaggerate. The captain, his wife and daughter, crew members, and several others not associated with the Mercer party accounted for the remaining people, to bring the total to exactly one hundred souls on board. Carrying only her reticule and a small valise holding her teaching supplies felt wrong. How
ever, she rationalized the fee she paid for her passage covered being escorted.
“Oh, Sorcha, we’re finally here.” Blinne stumbled at the ship’s rocking motion in its berth, then grabbed onto the railing and looked all around. “I’ve never been on a ship before.”
Overhead, a short sail flapped in the wind in rhythm with the water slapping against the hull. Gulls swooped low among the masts, and their high-pitched shrieks filled the air.
The cries drew her attention, and she looked up, the sight of the tall mast setting her stomach tumbling. A breeze tugged at her bonnet, so Sorcha retied the silk ribbons until she felt the pinch under her jaw. Her gloves, with two padded fingers, made the task a struggle. “As you keep saying.” Obviously, Blinne didn’t count the Fall River Line steamboat they rode overnight to travel from Newport, Rhode Island, to New York as a ship. Sorcha widened her stance to compensate for the movement, remembering Da’s advice from trips long ago on a friend’s fishing boat.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Mister Mercer held up his hands and scanned the group. His attire of a suit and tie befitted a former university president. Tall and thin, he wore a full beard and moustache, and his reddish hair was styled with a wavy clump on top, above his broad forehead. “Welcome to your new home for the next three months, until we reach our destination of San Francisco.”
Several titters and whispers passed among the women standing nearby.
Sorcha glanced around and spotted the Peebles sisters, who looked to be ignoring Mister Mercer and instead smiled and flirted with members of the crew carrying the luggage onto the deck. She’d noticed them flirting with the hotel staff and wondered if the lack of parental supervision was the reason for their brazen behavior.
Mercer's Belles Page 17
